


To Death and Back

by letthesongtakeflight



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Childbirth, Christine grows a spine, F/M, Kay based, Past Character Death, Read at Own Risk, Tags Contain Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, semi-graphic birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letthesongtakeflight/pseuds/letthesongtakeflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine returns to the dying Erik to confess her love for him and they spend his last days together. After he dies, Christine marries Raoul and tries to be happy with her new life, although she knows that she will always love Erik. But their happiness is shattered when Christine gives birth to a deformed child, reawakening the ghost from her past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christine de Chagny

**Author's Note:**

> Kay based. Starts just before/during the epilogue.
> 
> I own nothing except several cast recordings of Phantom and the Kay novel.

**_Christine de Chagny_ **

I fell back against the sweat-dampened pillow. I panted heavily for a breath of cold, clean air to alleviate the burning pain. But there was none; the room was hot and airless. There were shouts around me, urging me to go on, but I could barely hear them. I found myself concentrating on the candelabra that burned bright above my head. Through my pain-induced haze, the flames flickered in and out of focus. I could have sworn that the gold-gilded candelabra was swaying back and forth overhead, almost with a life of its own. It reminded me of a time not so long ago, when a chandelier had crashed onto the stage, and I was spirited away by a masked man. I wondered what would happen if this miniature chandelier, which was currently suspended above me, swayed and fell on my head. When the candles ignited on my hair and skin, would the pain match the sensation that presently burned within my body?

Was the pain endless? Would I be torn in half before my suffering was over? I knew that I was on the verge of passing out; that I was about to surrender to the cool, numbing darkness of unconsciousness. But the midwife's triumphant cry was strangely clear to my ears: "You are nearly there, Madame!"

I was so, so close to seeing my child; I could not give in so easily. I had to fight the tempting darkness that invited me with the cool hand of an old friend and instead embrace the fires that threatened to consume me. I must, to see my child. The child I created with him – with  _Erik_. By the time I realized I was carrying his child within me, Erik was dead and I was engaged to Raoul. I had vowed then to give our son or daughter the life Erik never had; the life Erik deserved. A part of me had been proud that my firstborn would be the child of my only love. No doubt I would bear Raoul other children throughout our marriage, and no doubt I would love them as much as I already love my unborn child. But I could imagine waking the children in the nursery several years later, and recognizing something of Erik's countenance in my eldest. Perhaps it would be his dark hair and golden eyes, or her lithe, graceful movements; perhaps it would be his musical talent, or her sharp wit. Although Erik was dead, seeing a little of him alive in our child would be my pleasure and comfort.

Then came a pain like no other before: a burning, tearing, ripping pain that I was sure left a gaping, bleeding hole in my lower parts. Surely there was a wide, red wound, edged with torn flesh and dripping with dark red blood.

And then, silence. The thickest, loudest, most ominous silence I have ever heard.

I looked up desperately at the small circle of faces that now surrounded me. The midwife and two maids of the de Chagny household. Three pairs of eyes concentrated on a spot between my legs. My baby. My baby, that did not cry, nor move, nor make a sound. Was it dead? Was all my suffering for nothing? Was I being punished for marrying Raoul while knowing I was pregnant with another's child? Surely my innocent child would not have to bear the price of my sin!

I could barely find the strength to lift myself off the pillows, but I endeavoured my best nonetheless. "Give him to me!" I demanded, struggling to reach forward. None of the three women answered me. They were all staring, transfixed, at the newborn.

"Vicomtesse –" it was the midwife who spoke first, her thin voice filled with numbed shock. "It is dead."

I fail to describe the sound that then poured from my throat. It was an instinctive, animalistic cry; the sound of pure grief. Losing what little strength I had possessed, I fell onto my back in hopelessness, numbly realising that tears were falling ceaselessly from my eyes. My baby was gone. The child I had carried for nine months; the child in whom I had hoped to see Erik; my dear, dear child. Gone. Dead.

It was then that the tiny creature that lay in the pool of my blood gave a feeble cry.

All was silent for a moment, save for his wail. It was thin and weak as a thread, yet it was an insistent cry, a resilient cry, a proclamation of life and survival. I dared not believe it. My baby was alive. Tears wet my cheeks; tears of joy now. I sat up, renewed hope giving me strength, as does the pale, grey light of dawn that battles the darkness of night. It was not over. The reason for my being was there again. It had not been in vain that I struggled through the difficult pregnancy and birth. It was love; pure and instinctive, a mother's love for her child even when he was in the womb, my unconditional love for the child I had yet to lay eyes on. "Give the baby to me." I reached out with both arms for my child.

In my joy, I had failed to notice the looks of fear that had dawned on the midwife and maids' faces. "What is wrong?" I demanded. There was no reply. "Give me my baby!" My voice rose in panic. What was the matter? Why were they all dumbstruck with horror? Why was I denied seeing or holding my child?

My lady's maid, Marie, reacted first. With shaking hands, she took a cloth and wrapped the baby in it – cringing every now and then in horror, I noted. And with a look of utter fear, she lifted the child and brought him to me. "It is a boy, Madame."

That was when I saw the sight that struck them dumb. Several minutes into the world, and my son was already the likeness of his father. The skin that stretched over his skull was thin, exposing the bone. Blood vessels were grossly drawn over his face, as though his flesh had been carved by centuries of rivers and mountains. His eyes were sunken deep into the head, not yet opened to face the harsh light of the world. Deformed and ugly as he was, he was my son, and I felt only love for him. Instinctive, primitive love, the kind that is harrowed into all animals since the beginning of time. The kind of love protective, sacrificing, all-consuming love that would make me die for him if it was asked of me.

The three anxious faces melted away. All I could see was him – my son, my imperfect yet infinitely precious son. I was unaware of the older maid laying a hand on Marie's shoulder and telling her in a hushed whisper to inform the master. I was unaware of the midwife shaking her head sadly in indication that the child was not going to survive for long. I was unaware of the maid's reply that it was a mercy. All that mattered was my son. My Charles.


	2. Raoul de Chagny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing recognizable.

**_Raoul de Chagny_ **

I had been anxiously pacing the floor of my study during the entirety of Christine's labour. My brother Philippe sat in a chair at the table, a plump cigar between his fingers. He had come to talk about a business matter, and to inquire over the de Chagny heir that was being born at this moment. Of course, I understood as well as he that a son must be produced soon; the de Chagny line must be continued, after all. But it had only begun several hours ago, and the midwife had assured me that the baby would not arrive until midnight at the least. True enough, there were no news of the birth from any of the maids, and Philippe was growing impatient at my ceaseless pacing.

"I can see that you are in no state of mind to talk over this matter," he said curtly, closing up the file he brought with him. "I will visit again tomorrow, when you will no doubt be in a calmer state of mind. I expect to have a nephew by then." He rose, shook my hand, and exited the study. From the window, I watched him enter his carriage and drive off into the night.

I had originally intended to stay up until the child was born. I held my sleepiness at bay for a couple of hours by trying to work. Shortly after midnight, however, my eyes began to shut against my will, my hand grew limp, and my head became increasingly heavy. I decided that the vigil was in vain. My son was no closer to entering the world than he had been eighteen hours ago, when Christine's pains began. I deserved to rest after waiting patiently for so long, and so I retired gratefully to my bed for much-needed sleep.

Indeed, my decision proved to be wise, for it was five hours later when I was woken by my sleepy-eyed valet. I groaned at being roused at this ungodly hour. "What is it, Lefevre?"

"Sir, the Vicomtesse's maid is here." he said.

That caught my attention immediately. "My son must be born!" I exclaimed jovially. "This morning, Lefevre, I have become a father! Send the maid in." Lefevre gave a slight bow before turning to allow Marie to enter.

"Sir." The maid curtsied. Her eyes were averted from mine, kept resolutely on the ground.

"Is my son born?" I demanded in eagerness.

"Sir, the child is..." She met my gaze for a second before turning away once more. Her eyes were huge, widened in fear. Her voice lowered to a whisper before she continued: "Deformed."

A terrible chill gripped my heart. I prayed that it was not my worst fear, that this was all a joke at my expense. I all but ran to Christine's chamber, shoving open the door in my haste. Christine sat, propped up with pillows. Her hair was in disarray, her cheeks pale. In her arms was a tiny bundle wrapped in white cloth. She beamed down at the infant, her face set in a look of such tenderness that even I, her husband, had not received before. The only time I had glimpsed anything akin to it was when she looked upon Erik after their kiss; the thought sent a mad stab of jealousy through me.

"Let me see him." I tried to school my voice into firmness; it did not work. Instead it came out as a pathetic, almost desperate whisper.

"Raoul." She looked at me with those imploring grey eyes. Her countenance, albeit tired and weak, hinted at some hidden strength. "No matter what he looks like, he is my son."  _My son_ , she had said. Hers. Not mine. The cold feeling in my heart intensified, so much that it should have frozen me completely and turned the Vicomte de Chagny into an ice statue at his wife's bedside.

"Show me his face," I demanded. With her eyes continuing to bear into my soul, Christine slowly turned the child around. Upon seeing his face, my worst fear was confirmed. His tiny face was scored with the blue veins that ran under his thin skin like poison. It was a replica of Erik's deformity, but on an infant's face its severity was magnified a thousand times. There was no way that I had fathered this child – this demon.

Every hope that had been instilled in me burst. These eight months of marital bliss had been heaven. I was married to the woman I loved, and she had been carrying my child. The darkness of the past, the Phantom's menacing shadow, no longer haunted us. It was a bright, new future, filled with hope and light and happiness. I knew that Christine loved Erik; I was not so foolish as to deceive myself otherwise. I was aware that a part of her heart would always belong to him even after his death. But I had believed — wholeheartedly, idealistically, naively — that the past could be put behind us. After all, dead men could not hurt the living. How very wrong I had been!

Christine had been unwell very soon after our wedding, even before she revealed to me that she was with child. Her pregnancy lasted eight months instead of nine. There were so many tiny clues that should have alerted me to the truth, but I was blind. I had been a fool in believing that Erik was out of our lives forever! There he was now, his mark upon the child,  _his_  child. He had won Christine's heart, soul, and body. Even in death he was besting me, proclaiming his hold over my wife, stealing my future away from me in the form of his son.

"Raoul." Christine's voice called me back from the turbulent ocean of my thoughts. Her eyes were intent upon my face, waiting for my reaction.

I stumbled away from her. There was a weariness in the depths of my bones. My heart had sunken to the bottom of some obscure pit. My thoughts were a gloomy sky. She called my name again, but I ignored her. I limped out of the door, back to my study, and drowned myself in liquor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I captured Raoul's struggle well. I don't think he's a "bad" person like so many phanfic writers seem to think he is. He's such a decent guy, only he's limited by his conventional thinking and upbringing, as well as pressure from his brother and society in general, to act accordingly to his social class.


	3. Christine de Chagny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If I were Kay, Erik and Christine would dance off happily into the sunset.

**_Christine de Chagny_ **

Raoul came to see me again the next morning. After birthing Charles, I slept for most of the day, as my labour had kept me up throughout the night. My body bore the signs of my trauma: I was sore everywhere, the slightest movement elicited pain from places I did not think could hurt. I barely had the strength to move from the bed, apart from traveling to the cradle that was several feet away from my bed.

I had never seen Raoul look as he did that moment when he entered my room. In public, Raoul was always well groomed. In the privacy of our bedchamber, even in the moments after rising from bed, he appeared no less than perfect. But in that moment, he was tired and unkempt. It was not only in his disheveled hair, for once failing to look attractive in its messiness; nor in his cheeks, haggard and drawn with stress. It was something in his entire demeanour, the way that he carried himself. It was as though the light in his eyes had been snuffed out prematurely and he had aged thirty years in the space of a day. He looked weary. Defeated.

I suppose that in my heart I knew what he was about to say to me, for I gathered myself, sat up straighter against the pillows, and looked my husband in the eye with steely determination.

We held each other's gaze for a moment – mine dignified and resolved; his broken and wearied.

He spoke first. "I have spoken with my brother, concerning your... situation." His words were clipped, strangely formal, as though discussing a business deal. Perhaps to Philippe de Chagny, that was exactly what I was – a replaceable woman, a vessel to bear an heir for the family line. And I had no doubt failed to uphold my end of the bargain.

Raoul continued: "You appreciate the direness of this situation, I am sure. If the proof of your crime had not been so blatant, I could have let it pass. Faked ignorance of your son's parentage. I would have been willing to be a cuckold for your sake." A spark returned to his eyes for a moment, and I knew that despite my crime, he still loved me; the thought filled me with guilt. "Philippe was not so lenient. He wanted to turn you and your son out of doors for your infidelity. He wanted me to divorce you, and if it had been any friend of mine who suffered such a grief, I would have advised them to do the same. But I defied Philippe, to offer you a way to remain my wife – a way for us to be together."

The final words of his proposal were terrible and final: "You can stay here, as long as your son does not."

I stared in open shock. I had fully expected to be turned out into the street with Charles. I could have lived with that. But to abandon my son so that I could remain a Vicomtesse – that was unthinkable. How could I give my child the life he deserved if I were to leave him alone in the world? A world that had been nothing but cruel and condemning to his father, and would surely be as cruel and condemning to him if he did not have my love and protection.

Raoul's eyes, blue as the sea where we met as children, begged me to take his offer.

And I knew that I could not. I shook my head slowly but firmly. "It is both of us, or none." I said. "You cannot ask me to abandon my son. I will leave if I must."

"Christine." His tone was insistent, imploring me to reconsider. "Please, think. Don't make such a hasty decision, especially when you will have to live with its consequences your whole life. What future could you possibly have as a single mother? That child is doomed already, just as his father was. But you – you have so much to lose. Your honour, your prospects, your life. The world does not take kindly to an unmarried mother. What means do you have to raise a child by yourself?"

"That would not be any concern of yours." I delivered my words with more bite than I had intended, and immediately I felt apologetic. My fingers, traitorous, trailed gently down his cheek.

The tender gesture seemed to encourage Raoul, for he continued: "We can have more children –  _our_  children, ones that have every right to stay under my roof, ones that I can call my own flesh and blood." He took my hand in his, and I made no move to retract it from his grip. "Stay, Christine. Stay for me and our future together, if nothing else."

The tug of temptation was strong; what he promised me was an easy life, a life of prosperity and glamour, a life without worry. If I chose to leave the de Chagny roof with my son, I would be surrendering myself to a life of hardship. I was exceptional in nothing but singing, and being a performer was out of the question if I had a baby to raise. Concerning sewing and other such skills deemed acceptable for a woman to learn, I was mediocre at best, having spent half my life in an opera house, where I would not need to learn such skills. I had little chance of employment, and without money, Charles and I would starve.

But that did not justify casting Charles out into the world alone. Neither my conscience nor my heart would let me live with that. If Erik were alive, if he knew of the dilemma I was in, he would not have wished me to leave our son at the mercy of a pitiless world.

"I cannot." My voice faltered, and I steeled it, much as I steeled myself before delivering a role onstage. "I could never live with myself if I chose to take up on your offer. I would forever hate both of us – you for making me choose, and myself for being too weak to refuse. And Charles would bear my punishment for me. Erik had never known love or acceptance; it is to late for me to show him that now, but I will give his son the chance he deserved."

Raoul sighed, wearied and resigned. "If you are so sure of your decision, I cannot change your mind. There is no more that I can do to help you." He rose from the chair. "You must be gone by tomorrow morning." His shoulders stiffly set, he walked to the door, opened it, and I was sure that he would walk out of my room, walk out of my life without so much as a backward glance. But he did pause, turned his head backwards a little, though not enough to meet my eyes, and said: "Goodbye, Christine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day. And night. And kinda my life.


	4. Antoinette Giry

**_Antoinette Giry_ **

It was an early morning in mid October when I first saw them. The day dawned cold, grey and foggy, as mornings were wont to at this time of year. I have long been an early riser, a habit embedded in me since my days as a dancer, one I took great pains to instill in my daughter as well, though she failed to see the virtue in being the proverbial "early bird".

I had been awake for a while when, a few minutes after seven, someone knocked at the door to my tiny apartment. Perplexed by the unreasonable hour and the unexpectedness of a visitor, I opened the door, and found, to my great surprise, the Vicomtesse de Chagny at my door. "Christine!" I gasped; for though she was a Vicomtesse, I had known her by her given name for many years. She was the last person I had expected to see. After all, the nobility do not trouble themselves to visiting poor ballet mistresses or performers, and certainly not in areas like the one I lived in. Furthermore, the latest news I had from Christine was months ago, before her confinement began.

"Madame." She gave me a tired smile. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her face was pale and drawn. Her once animated curls seemed almost lifeless. Her face, fresh and hopeful in my memory, was now etched with lines of experience; of sorrow; of burden. It seemed impossible that nine short months could do this to a person, to make her look old beyond her years. If she were relieved of all her worries, become carefree like the young girl she once was, she would look twenty once again. But the burdens she carried were emotional, and I recognised the scars of the suffering of the heart.

"Forgive me, intruding so early," the young woman before me continued. "But we have no where else to go." She attempted a rueful little smile. It was then that I noticed the small, worn case at her feet and the bundle in her arms.

A memory came back to me from years ago: a young Christine, recently orphaned, being entrusted to my care after her father's death. He was a friend of mine, and as he knew his death to be imminent, had made me promise to care for his daughter after he was gone. And so, the child was taken into my brood of aspiring ballerinas. The Christine then could not have been more different from the one at my door now – as a child she had been shy and awkward and gangly, and the woman before me now was a Vicomtesse: graceful and regal and resolute. But the similarity was there, in the desperation in her eyes, in the way she looked at me as her sole hope, in her loneliness in a friendless world. And I knew that I could not turn her away.

"Come in, my dear. And tell me what happened."

Christine thanked me with another smile, a mere shadow of her former brightness. I took the plain case for her; it was surprisingly light. I guided her into the living room, where she sat down on the sofa.

She looked down at the infant in her arms. "This is Charles," she said simply, rearranging the cloths around him so I could see his face. I could not hold in the gasp of surprise at the disfigurement, shockingly out of place on what should have been the smooth, rounded face of an infant. The look Christine shot me before immediately averting her eyes was nothing short of murderous. "The son I had with Erik." The explanation was unnecessary. She spoke calmly, strangely contradictory against the vehement look in her eyes moments ago. "He was born two days ago. I married Erik a few days before he died. I realised – completely too late – that I loved him." Her gaze became fixed on some memory, a ghost of the past that was visible only in her mind's eye.

She shook herself back into the present, as though waking from a dream. Her eyes, wiser than I remembered them, fixed on me. "I thought that if I said nothing of it to Raoul he would never find out." She gave a short, humourless laugh at her own naïveté. "Of course it could not have been that easy. He wanted me to get rid of Charles and remain his wife; I chose to leave with my son. I have no money, no title, nothing."

Dread pooled in my heart. Christine's renouncement of her husband's family complicated matters. I had thought that Erik's influence would be out of our lives for good, and that the young couple would be free of him. But with Christine and Charles's arrival, that ghost may return to haunt us after all.

Despite myself, I could not turn Christine down. She was like a sister to my daughter, and I considered her family, even if she was not bound to me by blood. "You know that you are always welcome in our home," I reassured her.

In return she gave me a tired, but grateful smile. "Thank you, Madame." It was then that little Charles began to fuss, whimpering softly in a sound that I recognised, from the days of Meg's infancy, would be followed by cries. "What is the matter? Are you hungry? Shh, my dear, shh." Christine attempted to soothe her son.

I guided Christine to the guest room where she would stay, leaving her there to nurse her baby in private. As I closed the door, the intimate mother and child moment I glimpsed warmed my heart. However, that warmth was quickly replaced by the dread I had felt earlier and the icy feeling returned tenfold. Should I keep the secret entrusted to me? Was it even mine to keep? But revealing it would lead to events beyond my control, beyond everyone's control. Surely it was better to stop meddling in the matter, now that everyone has reached a conclusion of sorts? The truth would not matter, if no one was aware of it.

These problems would have to be dealt with later. For now, there would be the task of waking Meg and informing her of the morning's developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love Madame Giry. Despite being a woman working in an opera house she is respected by all her colleagues, including men who out-rank her. She's the box keeper and messenger for the resident ghost, and Monsieur Trust Issue himself Erik trusts her enough to let her handle his communications with the managers and the rest of the opera hosue. Moreover, she is a woman who is observant and non-judgemental, but principled. I really wish there was more of her in phanfiction, and not just as a stock character.


	5. Christine Daae

**_Christine Daae_ **

 

Charles, full-bellied and sleepy-eyed, was warm and soft in my arms. I sang him a lullaby, the one my father had sung to me when I could not sleep, the one he sung when I had nightmares. The simple melody of the folk-song, combined with words in my native Swedish, was the most potent reminder of home and childhood. It was one of my earliest memories: my mother singing this song to me in her smoky mezzo-soprano tones, my father sometimes joining her in his tenor. Their voices wove together to create the fabric of my memory, those early years coloured with happiness and wonder and love. And now, my voice alone would spin into my son's memories, so that when he becomes a man, he can look back and remember this same Swedish folk-song, remember childhood and his mother’s voice.

 

Charles's eyes, golden and feline like his father's, drooped shut. I could not bear to let go of him just yet, did not want cold air to replace his warmth. His face reminded me so much of Erik. It was hideous, yes, barely human even, but I loved it all the same. I had to admit that as much as I loved my husband and son, they were not physically beautiful. Yet there was so much beauty in Erik. It was in his graceful movements, his genius mind, his artistic skill. It was in his thirst for knowledge, his commanding presence, his desire for perfection. It was in his gentle adoration, his violent passion, his capacity for feeling. It was the essence that made him Erik, the soul beneath that death's head, that made him beautiful. I trusted that Charles, too, possessed these graces. Perhaps it would be Erik's ability to love fully and completely, or my tolerance and compassion. Charles was beautiful; beautiful in that way his father was, beautiful in a way most of the world was too blind to see.

 

Charles's tiny chest rose and fell steadily as he slumbered. It reminded me of my last moments with Erik, three days after our wedding night.

 

When I woke on that final morning, I could immediately see that he had worsened. Every morning I had thanked God, thanked the angels, that he had lived through another night, that we had bought a few mores hours together. But that morning, we both knew that our borrowed time had run out.

 

"My love..." he whispered, one bony finger trailing down my cheek. His eyes were alight with ardent love as they had been every morning that I awoke at his side, as though he could scarcely believe that I was at his side. I took his hand and kissed his fingertips, then moved closer and kissed his collarbones  –  painfully prominent, as he had grown even thinner in his final weeks  –  and I kissed every part of his face with slow, deliberate gentleness, until finally taking his lips between my own, a gentle, chaste kiss.

 

As I pulled away, he murmured, his lips brushing mine as he spoke. "It is time."

 

I buried my face into his bare chest, his ribs sharp against my cheek, and I relished in that scent that I had come to recognise as his. "No." I was acutely aware that I sounded plaintive, like a child trying to put off her bedtime.

 

"Christine." With a finger under my chin, he tilted my head up gently. "We both knew that this was coming."

 

"It's too soon." Tears welled in my eyes, and like the child that I was, I wiped them away stubbornly. "It's not fair that our time together has been so short."

 

He was silent for a while, and when he spoke, I knew that he was baring his heart and soul to me. "If it were not for your return, I would have died that day I asked you to come." He took a deep breath, and I was aware of how his bare chest moved against mine, how much I loved the oxygen that he drew into his lungs and gave him life. How I dreaded the moment when the air stopped entering his lungs and the blood stilled in his heart. "Every day with you has been a blessing, one I do not deserve or expect, and yet  –  here you are. Not only living under my roof as a student, but as my wife, my lover! Even in my wildest dreams I had not foreseen this. I had not dared to hope that you would reciprocate my love."

 

"And now, you do not have to dream or to hope for it, for I am here," I promised. "Until the very end."

 

"Ah, yes, about that.” He took another deep breath, as though speaking were paining him. I heard the irregular beat of his heart, as though it were about to give out any moment.

 

"Don't speak; you should save your strength." I knew how futile that was, but I needed, perhaps selfishly, every second I had with him.

 

"Christine  – " To my alarm, he tried to sit up, and I pressed down on his shoulders.

 

"No! Don't.” 

 

"About my death," he continued from his earlier note. "You must leave before the very end."

 

"Not a chance." I argued firmly. I could not let him leave this world as he had entered it and lived in it  –  alone. "I am your wife, I will stay with you through whatever happens today."

 

"Please, Christine." Desperation seeped into his voice. "I do not wish you to see me in that way. You deserve something else to remember your Erik by, not by his corpse."

 

"And I do," I insisted. "I have countless memories of you. Our lessons when you were my angel; the time I lived here with you; and our short time as husband and wife. I will never forget any of it."

 

"For me, Christine. Promise me." That pleading look was still in his eyes, and I understood. He did not want me to see him in so undignified a manner, as an inanimate corpse, a lifeless thing. If it would be to his comfort that I left before, I would.

 

My heart softened with understanding, and I pressed my lips to his fingertips once more. "I promise."

 

Presently, a soft knock at the door roused me from where I sat on the bed. I returned Charles to the cradle Madame Giry had borrowed from a neighbor's several days ago. "Yes?" I called softly.

 

Meg's blonde head peeked into the room. "Is he asleep?" she whispered.

 

I nodded. "Let's talk outside." I joined Meg in the hallway outside the room.

 

"How do you feel?" Meg asked gently. She had been inquiring after my well being at least once every day since I arrived here five days ago.

 

I let out a laugh. "You are a dutiful nurse, Meg. I've told you, I feel fine."

 

She nodded, satisfied. "It must be strange for you," she said, making tea for the two of us in the little kitchen. "To return to this simple life after living as a Vicomtesse."

 

"Perhaps a little strange," I agreed, leaning on the kitchen counter and hopping up to sit on it as I had done countless times. "But the familiarity is comforting. Aristocracy is not all that we imagined it to be."

 

"No?" Meg tilted her head to the side, blonde ringlets falling perfectly over one shoulder. "I envisioned it to be all grandeur and riches, with endless hours at your disposal to spend as you see fit."

 

"No," I said, reaching for my hot cup of tea. I wrapped my cold fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into my skin. "It is all etiquette and appearances and pretense. People pretend to be something they are not. The opinions of others matter too much. Even when you so much as breathe you are aware of the many pairs of eyes scrutinizing your every move." I let out a quick but sincere laugh, attempting to lighten the mood. "I think I prefer the fantasies we had together!"

 

Meg joined in with a fresh giggle. "Princes and knights in disguise, to whisk us away to magic kingdoms!"

 

"More like fat, boring old men and arrogant, foppish young ones!" I returned in jest. I could not recall the last time I had been so carefree. Leaving my life as a Vicomtesse to live simply as Christine Daae was a release. "Do you ever think of the past?" I asked. "Of 'what ifs' and 'could have beens'?"

 

I had never seen Meg look as thoughtful as she did in that moment. "You do."

 

I nodded. "Yes. There are so many things I regret doing. I wish that I could go back and make things right."

 

"Like?" Meg prompted.

 

I gave her a rueful smile. "I would have agreed to marry Erik. Even if he were to die a few months later, at least we would have _some_ time. At least he could have known that I love him."

 

"Christine, I..." Meg glanced hesitantly towards the apartment. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "My mother knows something about Erik – something about what happened to him after  –  oh, this is so hard to explain!" she cried, exasperated.

 

"After _what?_ Please, try!" I demanded.

 

"The Persian came to find mother, nine months ago. He said that you were gone, and asked for her help in… I don't know what, exactly," she admitted. I nodded; it did not surprise me that Madame Giry helped Nadir settle Erik's affairs. "Anyway, mother was gone for a few days, and even after that, she was often away at Erik's house. This went on for weeks. At first I thought nothing of it, but then I became suspicious." I was suddenly entirely conscious of my heartbeat, of the blood that roared in my ears, of the strange hopeful stirring in the pit of my stomach. "What had she to do there? So I asked her about it and she told me that it was  – "

 

"None of your business, Meg Giry." We gasped in fright as the sentence was finished by another voice. Madame Giry glared at us from the doorway. "There are things that are not yours to know, and most definitely not yours to share." Her eyes pinned Meg and the girl froze.

 

"I'm so sorry, maman, I didn't mean..." Meg trailed off sheepishly, her head hanging. "It will not happen again."

 

"Make sure of it." The warning in her chilling voice was unmistakable. Meg nodded quickly, ducking out of the kitchen to escape her mother's wrath.

 

As soon as Meg was gone, I said, "It is not Meg's fault, madame. I asked her to tell me."

 

"She should know better than to gossip." The older women fixed me with her dark eyes, piercing and knowing as a hawk's. "Especially when she has no idea what she's talking about."

 

"But you do," I dared to say. Meg had been on the verge of revealing something to me  –  something about Erik. Maybe it was where he was buried, or what happened to his home, or even perhaps that he was still  –  no, that was nothing but a wild fantasy.

 

Madame Giry sighed, turning to face me with the strangest expression on her face. "Certain secrets were entrusted to me, Christine. You will forgive me that I do not share them with you."

 

Since I came to live with her as a child, I had been, for the most part, obedient. Sometimes you cannot fight against years of conditioning, and so I lowered my head in submission. Seemingly satisfied, Madame Giry, too, went into the living room. I was left alone in the kitchen with a gnawing suspicion and a growing chill in my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating, I got caught up with a whole bunch of other stuff. Here's the next chapter though, and I promise the one after will come soon.


	6. Erik Destler

**_Erik Destler_ **

"A letter for you, from Paris," Nadir called to me in Persian. I made a sound of acknowledgement, not bothering to look up at him. I was busy making amends to the score of my opera, which was to premier at a small but tasteful opera house in a matter of weeks. It was my first opera to be performed publicly, and it had to be perfect. Perfection was what I strived for, in myself and in  –   _her_.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts of Christine. I had completely submerged myself in work, to stop my thoughts from wandering towards her. But as I composed, I often, in my mind, heard her sing the arias I wrote, her voice accompanying the melody of the piano, the soprano mingling with my tenor in passionate duets. Every piece I wrote was for her, from the shortest verse to the greatest opera. Her grace, her kindness, her love, her spirit, was written into the twists and turns of the melody. I had once promised her a glowing career on stage; now that I had failed her in that, I must do the best I could to make amends.   If Christine could not take centre-stage, she would serve as the muse behind the music that would enchant the world in her place. 

Armed with this motivation, I had strived towards my new life, with the performance of my music as my aim.  _It is for her,_  I told myself each time I was stuck; each time I was dispirited; each time I felt that there was no end to the discouraging responses. For Christine. I could consider her not as the woman I loved and who loved me back, nor as a real woman of flesh and blood, for that was too painful; but as my muse, an immortal deity whom I would worship and glorify with my music – thus, and only thus, would the thought of her not be accompanied with pain and longing.  

I had no doubt that she thought of me, though it was probably not with the same ardent love with which I thought of her. I liked to believe that her memories of me were happy ones. The most I could expect of her was to recall me with the same gentle fondness she did her father. To her, I was nothing more than an artefact of her childhood, yet another exhibition in the gallery of her memories, lost and discoloured among countless other more exuberant ones.

She must be creating new memories, too, with that boy. Loving ones; beautiful ones;  _intimate_  ones. I could not imagine him running his hands over her body, tasting her soft lips, eliciting from her the sounds that she had made for me. Did she compare him with me? Would she, in her mind, judge that her young, handsome husband was a far better lover than her first? Would she be secretly relieved that my death had freed her, so that she was not bound to this monster for life?

It was dangerous to leave the shrine of Christine the goddess and indulge in memories of Christine the woman. They were separate entities now, the one that inspired me and the one that haunted me. I could not afford to converge them into the same being. 

The staves and notes on the paper before me were beginning to swim into a blur of lines and dots. I had been working for more than three days with no sleep; it was clearly taking its toll on me.

"Erik?" Nadir's soft, accented voice pierced into my attention.

"Hmm?" I ran my hands over my tired face. Thankfully, Nadir did not mind that I was maskless in our home, and I was past caring whether he saw my face or not. 

"You must rest," the Persian insisted. "Think of your health, Erik! I didn't save your life to have you work yourself to death! Have you no concern for your wellbeing?"

I chuckled, pushing my chair back to stand. "Why would I need to, when I've got you for that?" I said, clapping him on the shoulder. He sighed, clearly not in the mood to banter with me. "Where is that letter you were talking about?"

Nadir handed me a pale cream envelope, with  _Erik Destler_  written over my address. I recognised Antoinette Giry's handwriting. This piqued my curiosity, as I had not contacted her for months, not since the production for my opera was underway. Antoinette would not write to me unless necessary, though the matter was not urgent, for if it was so she would have telegraphed me. I was too tired to trouble myself with whatever problems the letter would entail, and thus decided that it could wait until morning, after I have replenished my energy with much needed sleep. 

"Don't wake me tomorrow," I called over my shoulder to Nadir before walking down the hallway to my room. I heard him mutter under his breath that I was an obstinate idiot. 

Sleep rarely came easily to me, but tonight I was tired enough that it washed over me like a comforting wave of darkness.  I dreamt of Christine, as I often did. Even if I could keep my conscious thoughts free of her, my subconscious betrayed me. When I was asleep, the threads of dreams spun in her image, envisioning in my mind the luscious chestnut curls, the carefree laugh, the exact shape and shade of her eyes as they danced with emotion.

I could not remember the dream when I woke, for the dangerous musings of dreams were kept strictly under lock and key when I was awake. It was only when I composed, or when I drew, that a gate was opened to emotions to infuse my mind and work, and even then it was only for the purpose of creation. Nothing else.

This night, however, one last image lingered in my head after I woke: Christine, her expression open in an unguarded moment, so young and vulnerable, looking up at me as though I made her world complete simply by existing. It was the way she looked at me when she woke at my side as my wife. Unlike the normally hazy quality of dreams, I saw this image as clearly as though she had been lying there at my side  –  a fantasy that could never be again. I held the image in my mind, turning it over, allowing myself to indulge for a moment longer, before carefully storing it away as one would a priceless heirloom.

The clarity of the last threads of my dream had given me a certain contentment that I had not felt in a long time. I was almost lighthearted as I pushed open the door to my study.  As I entered my study, the envelope laid on top of the disarrayed mess of my desk caught my eye. The sight of Antoinette's unexpected letter brought my spirits crashing down. There was nothing that could dampen one's spirits such as the tedious problems the letter would entail. Nevertheless, I reasoned that no good would come from putting it off, and so I opened the letter. I pulled out a page sporting neat lines in Antoinette's handwriting.

I scanned over their contents quickly. About a quarter of the way down the page, my eyes picked out Christine's name. My heart almost stopped.

It was not possible.

I read the letter again, slower, more carefully this time. Surely my eyes had deceived me, tricked me into reading a message that could not possibly be true. My descent into madness was complete. I was envisioning things that I wished to be.

I read the letter once, twice, three more times. I slowly sank into the chair, for my knees were curiously shaky all of a sudden. I was suspended on a thin wire between hope and incredulity.

It was not possible.

_And yet it was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY for the long wait but I completely forgot that I hadn't finished uploading this fic here. I just saw Phantom again this week, it's my third time seeing the show and the second time I've seen John Owen Jones in it. It completely reminded me of all the reasons I love the story and these characters. I'm working on a new Phanfic now, I don't know if it will ever see the light of day, but I hope that it will.


	7. Christine Daae

**_Christine Daae_ **

It was early in the morning; the sun had not yet risen, and I looked out over the city in its pre-dawn hush. Raindrops sprinkled lightly over the buildings, though the heavy clouds forebode a downpour later today. I remembered a time long ago, when my father and I would wake up at this hour and watch the city slowly come to life. It seemed a magical time, as though we were the only creatures alive in the world. Now, I could almost pretend that I was still in that happy girlhood; I could imagine my father next to me, and that I had not a care in the world.

But that time was gone. All children grow up, and with maturity come burdens. I could no longer be carefree and innocent like I once was. It was not so long ago when I was still a child, as I had been under Erik's tutelage, and even during my engagement to Raoul. But those brief days as Erik's wife had changed me; matured me. I entered his room a girl and emerged a woman, in mind and spirit as well as body. Now, nine months later, I could no longer deny adulthood and must embrace the duties thrust upon me. I was a mother; I had a son who was completely dependent on me. My father had been my only parent, and now I must be the same to Charles.

Presently, Charles's murmuring broke the silence. He was not yet awake, but he would be soon. Crossing the room quickly, I reached into the bassinet and picked him up. I rocked him gently, trying to keep him from wailing so as not to wake the other inhabitants of the building. The snuffling soon subsided and he was deeply asleep again. Just as I laid him back in the bassinet, a knock sounded from the door.

It was too early for Meg to be up, so I called, "Yes, Madame?"

The door opened and I saw the figure that stood before it.

My hands flew to my mouth. Blood pounded in my ears. I was light-headed with shock. It was not possible.

_And yet it was._

The last time I had seen him, I thought that it would be my last. He had been so ill then; one needed only to look at his frail, gaunt form to know that he was dying. The man before me now was Erik as he had been before his health declined. He looked as he always did: his posture tall and upright, his suit crisp, his mask over his face. It was as though the ghost in my memory was given flesh once again. Yet there was something different in his countenance. He lacked his usual confidence and authority; instead he seemed uncertain and even vulnerable. He was no longer the all-powerful Phantom, but merely a man.

Our eyes met and time itself suspended between us, stretched out like a sticky thread that is pulled and extended, longer than should be possible and you expect it to snap back but it does not and instead keeps on stretching infinitely. I was frozen in disbelief, scared that if I moved the spell would be broken and the apparition would disappear.

"Christine," he breathed in reverence.

I let out a sob at the sound of his voice. It was so real, so material before my ears. "Erik?"

I do not know who moved first, but all of a sudden we were rushing towards each other, crossing the gap before us. We embraced in the middle of the room, shaking and trembling. My arms circled him of their own accord, clutching him tightly, and he clung to me as though he would never let me go. Even if he had, I would not have released him. He whispered my name over and over again like a fervent prayer. I could smell him; feel him; hear him. My senses were filled with bits and pieces of him that I had believed were gone forever. His body was real and solid against mine, his voice richer than memory could conjure, his scent masculine and heady. His presence was so vivid, it made my head spin. I was like a freezing man suddenly exposed to a blazing hearth; the intensity of the materials invading my senses was overwhelming.

"Tell me I am not dreaming," I breathed against his shoulder. "That I will not wake and find you gone."

"My love," he said, tilting my head up to face him. "This is real."

I trailed my hand down his cheek, which was covered by the mask. He allowed me to remove it without resistance. At the sight of his face, I laughed softly in relief. Palming his sunken, malformed, yet adored cheeks, I said, "You're here; you're truly here."

"And I promise I will never leave you again," he replied. He then dipped his head and brushed his lips against mine with a breath-taking tenderness. It conveyed all that he had not said, all that he did not have the words for: an apology for his absence; a reassurance of his love; a promise for the future. When he pulled back, he wiped at my cheeks, and it was only then that I realised my tears had spilled over. I expected him to tell me not to cry, but he did not. His own eyes, too, were uncharacteristically moist. A single drop of saline liquid quivered at the corner of his eye, and dropped onto his cheek. I wiped it off with my thumb, and traced my finger along the shape of his lips.

"I missed you so much," I said. It was an understatement, but there were no words that could explain how it felt to have the part of my heart where he resided hollowed out; how it hurt to breathe; how it hurt to be alive when he was not. The wound had been healing, but I knew that it would always leave a scar, a reminder of the wholeness that had once been and never would be again. Now the wound disappeared entirely, and the throbbing of life I felt there was strange and unfamiliar. Like an amputee who is granted a new limb, I had forgotten what it felt like to be complete.

"I missed you too, more than I could bear," he murmured, moving his hands along my face to the back of my head and running his fingers through my hair. "And I am so, so sorry for the suffering you've had to go through. I left you alone, when I should have been there to care for you. If I could do it all over again, I would have done all in my power to prevent you from suffering."

I shook my head as fresh tears fell. "You are here now; let that be enough. God knows it is more than what we had a day ago." At my words he nodded; I could sense that he was suppressing the urge to cry as I did. He held me against him once more, and I marvelled at how right it felt to be in his arms and have him in mine.

There were so many questions I wished to ask: how he was alive and healthy when he had literally been at death's door not a year ago? Where did he go after leaving the opera house? Why did he not return to me sooner? There was so much that I wanted to say, but the words did not come to me. I could not bring the questions to my lips and spoil the moment with tedious explanations and frustrating emotions. For now, it was enough for me to be here in his arms. I experienced a sort of happiness that I had not felt in a long time, not since the last morning I spent with him. The fullness of the moment left no space for words.

We stood there for a long while, as the sun came up over Paris. The dusky blue sky was giving way to pastel pink and orange when I broke the silence. "There is someone I want you to meet," I said, and drew Erik to the bassinet.

Charles was asleep, still unaware that our world had completely turned around. I studied Erik's countenance as he looked at his son for the first time, looking upon features that were a miniature replica of his own. Without the mask, his expression was open. There was surprise, and the slightest tinge of guilt; but dominating both was tenderness.

"Do you hate me?" he said softly without taking his eyes off the sleeping infant. "For doing this to him?"

"It is not your fault," I replied. "You would never have done so willingly. Besides," I added, "it is because of his resemblance to you that we are reunited. If not, I would not have left the de Chagnys, and you would not have come back to Paris. I would have spent my whole life believing that you're dead." At my statement, he wrapped an arm around my waist and I pressed against him.

The sunlight was now creeping through the window, and a few rays of it shone onto Charles's face. The bright light woke him up and he yawned widely. He golden eyes focused on my face and he made a sound of impatience. "Good morning," I said, picking him up and cradling him against my chest. "Look who's here, Charles. This is your papa." Charles's gaze, unusually intelligent for one so young, rested on Erik.

"Hello, Charles," Erik said solemnly. "I'm sorry I have been late."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting that I haven't finished uploading this fic .___.  
> I'm so sorry for the long wait, once again!
> 
> But this is the chapter everyone's been waiting for. This was the chapter that inspired the whole fic and it's very important to me. I hope you like it as much as I am proud of it.
> 
> There will only be one more chapter after this, and this time I PROMISE to upload in the next few days!


	8. Christine and Erik Destler

**_Christine Destler_ **

It was not until that night that I was alone with Erik again. Whenever we had a private moment throughout the day, I was bursting with inquiries, but we were always interrupted before I could answer.

When we had finally retired to our room for the night, and Charles was asleep in his bassinet, Erik and I nestled close together on the bed. Its narrowness gave us an excuse to hold each other constantly, though even if we were given a bed wide enough for ten men I would not have relinquished my hold on him.

We did not speak, but simply basked in each other's presence. It had been too long since we had had the simple luxury of holding each other. Lying there in Erik's arms, I no longer felt vulnerable or alone. The difficulty of the past nine months —the loneliness, the guilt, the weight of my secret —seemed to belong to a different lifetime.

But I knew that it was as not so, for these difficulties had changed me, taken the weak child I was and moulded me into a new figure, one that I was still coming to terms with. Like a soft pot of clay, life had put me into a kiln and, after this trial through fire, the weakness and uncertainty was burned away and I emerged stronger, wiser, more cynical, and infinitely more certain of what I believe in and hold dear.

I finally broke the silence. "How did you survive? And why did you not come to me sooner?" These were the questions that had been on the tip of my tongue all day. I was more than a little stung that he had not returned to me sooner; I had mourned him, and upon discovering that I was carrying his child, I had borne the burden alone.

"Believe me, my dear, I had no intention of lying to you," he said. "When I made you promise to leave that morning, I truly believed that I was about to die. I fell asleep after you left; yours was to be the last face I saw in this world. The image of you on that last morning was imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, and I would carry it with me to the grave."

"And yet you will not admit to your melodramatic tendencies," I said in an undertone. He chuckled, and continued with his narration,

"But I did wake, and when I woke, Nadir was there, waiting to bury me. I daresay that at the sight of me, he almost thought that my corpse had been reanimated. But I was very much alive, though extremely weak, as you have witnessed." I nodded my agreement without interrupting his tale. "He cared for me; without him I would have perished, without a doubt, unable to even leave the bed. But slowly, I recovered, and as soon as I was well enough to travel, he arranged for us to leave for England. I was treated by one of the best doctors in Europe; the new treatment he introduced worked, far better than even he predicted. He claims it a miracle, that none of his other patients made as quick and complete a recovery as I did."

I could imagine it all so vividly, as it had once done with my father' stories. Erik as he had been when I last saw him, painfully weak and helpless; Nadir with his concern masked by sharp wit and practical sense; a journey across the grey sea to England; Erik willing to risk his life in surgery; the uncertain days afterwards when no one knew whether he would pull thorough; and finally his sudden recovery. I kissed his hands, my heart swelling with love. "I doubt anyone else can recover like that."

"Life has a way of clinging to me like a resilient pest," he said, somewhat disdainful in his dismissive attitude.

I sat up, cradling his face between my hands. "Even now? Is life still a pest you would wish to be rid of?"

His hands came up to caress my face in reverence, as though he could scarcely believe I was not an apparition. "No. Not since it has become worth living." A smile tugged at my lips, and I submitted to the desire to kiss him. The sensation of his uneven lips against mine, his hands tangling into my curls, all my senses overwhelmed with his essence. I had stored these images into the deepest chambers of my heart, treasured as my most precious memories, only to be taken out and savoured in the most unbearable of times, to remind myself of the beauty and wonder life could hold. I had thought that they could never be again, and therefore must be remembered with utmost care, treated like fragile and priceless antiques. Now, they were not only memories, but also the present; Erik filled my senses, my mind, my heart, and he would be mine forever.

Pulling away from him, I rested my forehead against his and said, "Tell me more about your life now."

"Very well," he agreed. "I now live in Vienna with Nadir. I published some music, and my opera is about to premier in two weeks' time."

I found that I could not reconcile this new image of Erik with the one I already had of him. I could not picture this man, who has spent his life hidden in shadows, living and thriving under the sun. "I cannot believe that you have changed so much. The fearsome Phantom, as a respectable gentleman!"

He trailed a finger down my cheek softly. "It was all for you. I had deprived you of a life on stage where you would be worshipped by the world; so I infused you into every note I wrote, to return to the theatre an imitation of its brightest star."

My breath hitched in my throat. I found that I could not speak for all the emotions overwhelming me at that point. He had not given up on the dreams he shared with and instilled in me, even after I had forsaken my career and art. He had created music to immortalise me, even when I had turned my back on music in a betrayal of what we worshipped together. I was unworthy to be honoured thus; I could not believe that he would go to such lengths to beautify me after I was no longer his. I failed to annunciate the depths of my feelings, and I found that there was no need to pronounce them, for I could see in the tenderness of his gaze that he understood. In that moment there was no need for words; they were simply meaningless utterances, insufficient for the expression of the deepest and most heartfelt emotions.

* * *

 

**_Erik Destler_ **

I could scarcely believe that Christine was back in my arms once again. This was not the Christine I had put on a pedestal and worshipped from afar; this was Christine the woman, Christine my wife, Christine my partner. This was the woman I had given my heart to, and had given me hers in return. Her lustrous curls, her diminutive nose, her rosebud mouth, her every eyelash, was highlighted by the soft light of a single candle. I used to think that she was like the sun, as bright and magnificent as daylight itself. But no, her lustre was more like the moon's, gentle and unobtrusive. She was light, but she shone best in the dark. The same darkness that concealed my ugliness allowed her beauty to shine.

"Tell me about your life these past months," I said.

"There is not much to talk about that you don't already know," she replied with a laugh.

"Tell me all the same," I said. I had not been with her these nine months; I felt that the Christine I had left behind was not the Christine before me now, and I yearned to know this new, mature Christine.

She consented. "After you died, I asked Raoul to postpone the wedding for a month. I needed time to decide what I would do, because I knew that I could never love another as I love you, still loved you despite of your death. I was about to break off the engagement, because I could not marry Raoul under the guise of being in love with him; I could not spend the rest of my days with a man I did not love, nor could I be so despicable as to bind him for life to a woman who did not love him. But then I discovered myself to be with child, and I, like the selfish, cowardly girl I am, married Raoul for the security he could give for me and the baby." Her voice was laced with shame and bitterness. "I lied to him, betrayed his love for me by letting him believe that I loved him and that the child I was carrying was his, because I did not want to raise a child alone as an unmarried woman."

There was a curious stirring in my gut, a rising force of indignation and protectiveness and guilt. I had not foreseen the stress and the dilemma she had faced. Had I known I would never have let her leave, no matter how ill I was! I thought I set her free to live happily with the vicomte; instead I abandoned her when she needed me most.

"My dearest." I could not keep my voice from trembling. "You did what anyone in your situation would have done. Would it have been better for you to be pregnant and starving in the streets? You needed a husband to care for you, and in my absence, that boy with his resources and his adoration of you was a better candidate than most."

"Yes," she agreed. "I had dedicated some thought to the situation and I found this to be the best solution, though it is far from satisfying. Nevertheless I cannot say that if I were to choose again I would choose differently, for my actions were in the best interest for myself and my child, and any blame that can be derived from them will fall onto me alone."

"This was my fault," I confessed in shame. "Had I not made you leave that last morning, had I allowed you to stay until I was dead, you would not have had to marry that boy for your own well being. As soon as I was well I should have written to you—"

"Erik." She interrupted me, cupping my face with a delicate hand. "Don't blame yourself anymore for this. My actions are my responsibility alone. I do not regret them; I hope you don't either. Please let us leave it at that and not talk anymore of these dark months."

I took one of her hands in mine, loving how small it was against my long-fingered hands, and kissed its palm. "Yes. Let us not dwell on the past, for whatever sufferings life has given us these long months, being here together now makes it worthwhile."

She lay back down and snuggled into my side with a satisfied sigh. "What will happen to us now? Where will we go?"

"I will have to return to Vienna soon, for my opera is about to premiere. As soon as opening night is over, I will return here, and we can stay in Paris until you are well enough to travel. Then we can go to Vienna —or any place you want. I should not mind the British Isles, or perhaps you would prefer the quietude of Sweden —"

She silenced me with a chaste kiss. "Vienna sounds lovely."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd better finish posting this before I forgot about this fic again.
> 
> So that's it, folks. I hope you enjoyed it, even with all the waaay too long delays. Even though I wrote this nearly two years ago, I'm still really proud of it. Thank you for sticking with me and for reading this story and leaving kudos and comments!


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